No Remedy For Memory
by koalatygirl
Summary: Soccercop fic. Alison wakes up to a comforting Beth after falling off the stage during her musical.


Slowly, your eyes open to rays of sunshine falling on your cheeks and warming your face. A small space heater moves back and forth, filling the room with warm air. Your head is pounding and you focus on the heater, letting the fixed motion steady the pain, which starts to work until you shift your stiff position, causing your arm to throb more painfully than your head and a soft whimper slips between your lips.

"Ali?" You hear from another room along with some shuffling until the body of the voice opens the door of the bedroom wide enough to poke her head through. Seeing you awake, she steps inside. "You okay?"

Your head jumps around with each painful thud and your vision is somewhat foggy but you nod and her concern brings a smile to your face. She sits next to you on the bed, so close that you can feel her warmth through the blanket that lies across your legs, and kisses your forehead softly. You blush like you always do when she touches you because nothing's ever felt as gentle or sweet or protective or beautiful as Beth does. You let your cheek rest against her shoulder and she brings an arm around you, twining her fingers in your hair.

"How's it feeling?" She asks you, pointing at your arm with her free hand. Your eyes follow her finger, remembering the pain that called Beth in the room, and they find your arm in a sling. Somehow, seeing it damaged makes the intense pain return and you take a sharp intake of oxygen through your nose to keep from gasping audibly, but Beth still notices. Her hand leaves your hair to rub your shoulder instead.

You peel your face off of her to look at her reaction when you ask "What happened?" and your voice comes out rough and scratchy. It sounds so foreign to you. Your good arm flies up to cover your mouth in surprise.

Beth chuckles a little at the look on your face, which irritates you because it's _not funny_. But the soothing sound of Beth's laugh relaxes you until you smile with her. She brushes the bangs from your eyes and trails her hand along your neck and collarbone, then stops to rest her hand on your shoulder. "You don't remember?" The smile fading from her lips.

You close your eyes, trying to focus through the pain that clouds your thoughts now that the panic of not remembering anything that lead to you lying in Beth's bed with your arm strapped around your neck hits you full-force. It makes you want a drink before you sort it all out. Your eyes snap open at the thought. "The musical," you whisper under the hand that still lingers over your mouth. You know you should be worried about what happened just before the musical. The drinks you had. The pills you took. The life you wanted to escape for just a little while. But you're afraid thinking about it will make you thirst for that drink or crave that pill or wish for that escape, so you don't hesitate before you ask, "Was I awful?"

She smiles sadly before answering your question, which makes you cringe because Jesus, you must had been _awful_. But she tries to convince you otherwise. "You were so beautiful. You had your hair curled. Mmm, I like you with you hair curled. And your lips were so _pink_," she adds, twirling your hair with her fingers while she talks. "You sang in sync with the music, nothing was offbeat. You did really well until you fell off the stage. That's how you got this," she tells you, running her hand along your sling and then squeezing the fingers that poke through the end.

"Oh my _god,_" you almost whisper, sitting straight up now. "I fell off the _stage?_" How is this even possible? You're not some mediocre rookie when it comes to theatre. You've had years of practice. You have your ballet background, for Christ's sake. You've gotten great reviews. You're a _star._

At least you thought you were.

Beth shrugs. "You are a star. And well, uh, everyone was very entertained."

"_Elizabeth Childs. _Do _not _make a joke about this," you order, waving a demanding finger (from your good hand) in front of her face. She is smiling, trying not to laugh, even, and your lips mold into a hard line to match the tone of your voice. This is one of the _least_ funny things in your life.

She presses her lips to the finger you still have in the air. "I'm sorry, Ali," she apologizes through the smile on her face. "I promise no more jokes about it. And you really were amazing before. Ask Felix."

You smile at the thought of Felix coming to watch you preform, but it fades, realizing that it had been only Felix. You pretend it doesn't hurt, remembering neither Sarah nor Cosima came to watch you. _They had important things going on,_ you tell yourself. Sarah has her daughter. Cosima has her science. Even if it went as badly as Beth is making it sound, it still stings a little knowing only Felix and Beth had watched the play. Well, and Donnie. _Donnie._

You pull your hand away and let it rest under your jaw. "Beth, where does Donnie think I am?" Your voice is more panicky than you intended, but panic is all you know lately. Her hand is rubbing your back now in slow, calming circles, but it doesn't really calm you down at all. You really just need her to tell you so your mind can stop wandering down frantic paths of possibilities. "Beth?"

"Relax, Ali. I've taken care of it." But it's not really an answer at all. That's all anyone gives you anymore. Brush-away responses. Half-truths. Excuses. Straight-up lies. And suddenly you're so angry at Beth for doing the same thing to you. It bubbles inside of you—the anger—simmering over the idea that Beth is different from them. That she is honest. That she is your anchor, keeping you from floating away from everyone else that brushes you off as less of a threat, less of an asset, less of a _person._ You turn away from her, eyes burning.

She touches your cheek. "Hey, Ali," she says very softly, turning your head back to face her, so gently that you let her while gritting your teeth to keep all the hurt from flowing down your cheeks. Her thumb rubs back and forth over your cheekbone. "I just don't want you to worry, because you don't have to." You hate yourself for hurting from Beth's words. Because you _know _she's not trying to hurt you. But you cannot help the desperate thirst to know exactly what's happening and her side-stepping responses are only making you more anxious, more worked up, more panicked. How can you handle the situation without all the facts?

Jesus_,_ are you _crying? _You told yourself you weren't going to do that. Because what exactly are you even crying about? You try to pinpoint the precise thing that pushed the tears over the brim but your thoughts only swirl around the sting in your eyes and the pain in your stomach and the thickness of your throat and—_why are you crying?_

Beth's thumb is wiping your tears away one cheek at a time, so delicately, like you are fragile as the glass of your wine bottles. You imagine letting one of the bottles fall to the floor, shattering into sharp and jagged pieces. Only, the broken bottle would be wet with wine, whereas you have Beth to dry your tears.

Beth's hand is around your waist, rubbing your belly soothingly, like you are a small child in need of someone's comfort. You think of Gemma and Oscar and the times you've held them in your arms, cradling them every time they'd needed you to. The pain subsides slowly, pushed away by something else. Something hopeful and warm and you place your hand over Beth's when you realize you might be smiling.

Beth's lips are on your neck, kissing the skin there over and over, like a repetitive rehearsal of the same scene, making sure she got it exactly right. But every touch is exactly right and you don't tell her so because you don't want her to stop. Your throat is still tight but in a way that makes you think she's healed you because you've stopped crying and your stomach breaks out in giddy tingles where her hand is sandwiched between yours and your belly. You're definitely smiling.

Her hand slides down to your hip and she pulls you onto her lap before pressing her lips to yours. They're as warm as ever and taste like her spearmint gum she's always chewing. Both her arms wind around your waist, pulling you closer and tucking you safely inside her embrace. Your good hand is on the back of her neck and your mouth moves with hers, breathing in all the safety she has to offer with a humming sound bubbling in your throat.

Her lips break into a smile as she pulls away slightly, pressing her forehead against yours before pecking your cheek and lifting her head to look at you. "Okay, now that I've successfully calmed you down," she says, arms still around your waist while you ponder the phrase 'calmed down' and hardly find those words fitting, "Donnie thinks you're in rehab."

_What the Dickens?_

"Rehab?!" She kisses your other cheek, which doesn't change the panicked look on your face. Rehab is a place for drunks and addicts and people with _problems._ The thought of such a place makes you shiver. The hand on Beth's shoulder finds its way to hover over your mouth. "Beth, I cannot go to _rehab._"

"I know," she tells you. "That's why you're here and not there." She pauses for a moment, gauging you before continuing and instead says, "God, Ali _breathe_. Or I'm going to drive your ass over there right now." You haven't realized you'd been holding your breath. The oxygen almost burns your throat and somehow makes your lungs feel empty. "But, you know," she says slowly, tucking strands of hair behind your ear and letting her hand linger on your face, "some help might not be a bad thing." Her eyes meet yours and she's trying hard to be still and keep her breaths even.

"Beth, you can't be serious." It comes out easy, conversationally enough for her to respond with a sarcastic reassurance that, yes, she was, in fact, joking about it. But she doesn't. She just keeps looking at you with those eyes—your eyes. "Beth, sick people go to rehab. People who aren't _right._ I'm fine. I'm—I'm not…" but you're losing your confidence because she isn't agreeing with you. You don't need help. You're not someone who needs help…Are you? "Beth?"

Her eyes flicker to your casted arm before answering. "I don't want to see you get hurt." She's biting her lip and looking away, suddenly shying away from her usually cocky self, which only worries you even more. "I do _not_ want you to hurt they way I did. Don't make my mistakes." Her voice is strained, choked up and strangled as she claws at the words she wants to say. "I love you."

She's folding you into her arms and you're burying your face into her hair and her neck like she could save you from yourself. And maybe she could if she were still around for you to do the same for her. "I loved you, too."

—||—

Your eyes open slowly, rusted from the dried tears. Your body aches in her absence, remembering what it felt like to have her hold you again. To feel as safe as you did when you she kissed you so tenderly. Your fingers rest on your lips, fighting to hold on to what she tasted like.

You come to your feet, finding yourself in an unfamiliar room with standard furniture and Beth's word "rehab" rings in your ear. The word itself makes you cringe, but you love the way it sounds rolling lazily off her tongue. You close your eyes and fight to hold on to the sound of her voice.

You hate this place already. You do _not_ need help.

_Some help might not be a bad thing. _

But the room feels weird. Like a costume that doesn't fit you, this room doesn't fit your perfect little life. But is your life even perfect anymore? You don't even have to think before answering "no". Your suburban lifestyle broke a little when Beth showed up, shoving ridiculous cloning conspiracies down your throat, but that didn't make it any less perfect. Less perfect is not having Beth by your side when you need her and masking your pain and your panic with alcohol and pills and maybe _some help might not be a bad thing._

The thought of Beth can keep you going, even if she's already made the great escape.


End file.
